


Forget Pumpkin Spice Lattes, Caramel Apples Hold the True Meaning of Fall

by itsmylifekay, WhatTheBodyGraspsNot



Series: I'll love you in the cornfields, I'll love you in the hay; I'll love you back in Brooklyn where my heart still loves to stay [7]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: M/M, small town AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-14
Updated: 2014-10-14
Packaged: 2018-02-21 05:15:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2456093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itsmylifekay/pseuds/itsmylifekay, https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhatTheBodyGraspsNot/pseuds/WhatTheBodyGraspsNot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve is excited, and not just the regular oh-yay-doing-something-fun-today kind of excited, but the kind of excited that comes along with cooling temperatures and changing leaves and autumn in the air. The breeze is crisp and cool whipping in through the open window of his pickup, ruffling his hair and making Bucky grumble halfheartedly at the cold.</p><p>(Set between Til the Cows Come Home and Fuckin' Brooklyn Man)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Forget Pumpkin Spice Lattes, Caramel Apples Hold the True Meaning of Fall

 

Steve is excited, and not just the regular oh-yay-doing-something-fun-today kind of excited, but the kind of excited that comes along with cooling temperatures and changing leaves and _autumn_ in the air. The breeze is crisp and cool whipping in through the open window of his pickup, ruffling his hair and making Bucky grumble halfheartedly at the cold. But Steve knows he doesn’t really mean it, knows he’s just grumpy from being woken up early and drug into the car without being told where they’re going. They pass sleepy houses and tired fields, all blurring together as Steve takes them down seemingly endless country roads.

“C’mon, Buck.” He grins, turning just slightly to grin at Bucky’s slumped form. “Aren’t you excited?”

And no. Bucky’s _not_ excited. How could he possibly be excited when it’s the asscrack of dawn and Steve has dragged his ass out of bed...again… “It’s a good thing I like you, ya little shit.” Except it doesn’t come out with as much venom as intended, more of a groggy drone than anything.

“Awww,” Steve croons, reaching over to give Bucky’s knee a squeeze before returning his hand to the wheel. “Love you too, Buck. Wanna take a nap until we get there? Be all bright and sunshiny for the surprise?” And yeah, he knows he’s asking for it, but it’s impossible to resist a bit of teasing when Bucky’s all rumpled and sleepy looking like he is.

Bucky grumbles, glaring daggers at Steve’s brilliance, “...bright and sunshiny, my ass…” But then he hunkers down, folding his arms and using the edge of the open window as a makeshift pillow. He sprawls his legs out over the bench seat and into Steve’s space, purposefully nudging him with his shoe before closing his eyes and drifting off with the hope that this isn’t another one of Steve’s hairbrained schemes involving sheep and horses and all other manner of livestock.

Humming softly to himself, Steve continues onwards, glancing over every now and then to take in Bucky’s sleeping face. And even though he’s only seen it a few times before (since he’s up with the sun and Bucky’s up when Steve pries him out of bed with a crowbar), he knows he’ll never get tired of looking at the way Bucky gets so innocent in sleep: his eyes closed, hiding the mischievous glint that’s always lingering in their depths; and his face smoothed out of all tension, no worry lines as he watches Steve attempt to scale the bookshelf, no teasingly bitten lip as he stares at Steve from across a dinner table.

And it certainly doesn’t help that Bucky’s wrapped up in a soft black hoodie, looking warm and approachable in a way Bucky surely doesn’t intend. Because Steve made the mistake of saying he looked like a cuddly teddy bear earlier and had nearly been drowned out by Bucky’s low, unamused growl before the words had even completely passed his lips.

Bucky’s boots are a heavy point of contact against his thigh, a physical link that Steve melts into, pressing just that little bit closer as he watches the countryside drift by. It’s beautiful and peaceful and perfect and he almost regrets that it has to end.

_Almost._

Because then he’s finally turning into a makeshift parking lot, dirt and grass crushing beneath the wheels of the truck as he pulls in next to a station wagon. He puts the truck in park and pulls out the keys, just taking it all in for a moment before turning to Bucky and giving him a gentle pat on the knee. “Buck, we’re here. Gotta wake up.”

Bucky stirs, pulled from his semi-dream about Steve bringing home a squadron of hamsters to aid back to health. “Yeah,” he grumbles, in that state where he can’t tell what volume he’s speaking at. When he realizes that they’re still in the truck, and Steve is looking at him with this fond little smile, Bucky sits up all the way, running a hand over his face as he looks out the window. “...’kay, where’dya bring us…?”

“Take a guess,” Steve grins, not able to contain the way he’s practically vibrating in his seat, so full of energy and ready to bolt out the door. But Bucky’s still waking up, and he’s willing to give him a few more moments of peace. He directs their gaze out the windshield, leaning on the hand he’d put on the toe of Bucky’s boot.

It’s like looking through a window into wonderland. An _autumn_ themed wonderland.

There are rows of trees, heavy laden with apples; signs boasting hay rides and mazes and a kid park; a little pen of goats, complete with quarter-operated food dispenser; and a big board for measuring pumpkin size, shaped like a giant smiling jack-o-lantern. And that’s just what’s in their immediate field of vision. Steve knows there’s so much more to see and he can’t wait to show Bucky _everything._

And right now, Bucky’s just kind of staring, the immediate concern that the goat pen injected him with waning as his eyes fall onto the rest of the grounds. It’s kind of like the state fair that rolls around in the summer, only... _fall_. And it’s...it’s really fucking cute, actually. “Are you taking me apple-picking?” he asks, smirk curling across his face as he glances over at Steve. “Are we getting pumpkins?” And also, “Is that maze thing free?”

He might be a little pumped now.

And yeah, Steve has totally won this round.

“Yes to all of the above, and more.” Steve gives Bucky’s boot a last pat and then pushes open the door, jumping down on the ground and stretching his arms above his head then out into a ‘T’, as if he could give the whole farm a hug. He figures they should start with the apples first, since that goes quickly and is closest to the car. “Hope you’re ready for the time of your life.”

Bucky lets out a snort, sauntering over to where Steve is beside himself with eagerness. “I thought the state fair was supposed to be the time of my life…”

“The state fair is for summer, this is for fall. Completely different,” Steve explains, pulling his flannel sleeves down past his knuckles and wandering towards the entrance to the orchard-- a small break in the fence where you can grab a wagon and a couple of baskets before making your way into the actual rows of trees.

Bucky regards the fleet of wagons that stretch into the distance with amusement, “Christ, think they have enough?” Because seriously, how many shitty little red wagons can one farm need? Are they expecting the entire population of Indiana to pour in here at once and demand a means to carry their selection? He doesn’t think so. “I assume I’m the one who’s gonna have to pull this thing, yeah?”

Steve laughs, a bounce in his step as he grabs a couple of bags to line their baskets, turning around to face Bucky as he walks backwards to the wagon lineup. “Why do you think I brought you, Buck? Gotta earn your keep somehow.”

Bucky grins wryly, grabbing the handle to one of the lesser-shitty-looking wagons anyway and trailing behind Steve. “Think I earn my keep just fine, actually…”

“Mhmm,” Steve hums. “Just keep telling yourself that.”

Bucky is silently thankful that the lines of apple trees that flank the path are rather short, the apples hanging closer to the ground, probably so kids/Steve can reach them. What he isn’t thankful for, however, is how Steve is suddenly this goddamn apple connoisseur, regarding each fruit with distaste and passing it up until he’s dragged their asses nearly to the end of the plot. Only then, does Steve seem satisfied with the selection.

And Bucky supposes that’s okay, because if anything, this way he can see Steve light up when he manages to find the apple that meets all his criteria. It’s even more endearing because said apple happens to be at the top of the fucking tree, the sun shining down onto it like some sort of heavenly beacon.

Steve doesn’t even need to look at him for Bucky to know where this is going.

“Hold on,” Bucky says, dropping the handle of the wagon and walking up behind Steve, his hands grabbing around his waist and only slipping against the soft flannel of his shirt once.

Then Bucky heaves Steve up with a tiny grunt, lifting him as high as he can and wishing he could see Steve’s face when he finally plucks the almighty apple from the tree’s clutches. “Got it?” he asks, face practically smothered by Steve’s shirt as he hears the leaves shake on their branches.

He’s answered with a proud “Mhm!”, and then Bucky brings Steve back down onto solid ground, adjusting his own shirt that had ridden up in the process.

“Got yourself a real winner there, Stevie,” he smiles, watching as Steve inspects his prize, “Might be the best of the bunch.”

“You bet it is,” Steve nods, completely serious where Bucky was lightly teasing, but there’s no room for jokes when produce is at stake. “And now we’ve got to find more just like it, enough to fill those two baskets.”

Bucky lets out a groan that Steve ignores, choosing instead to resume his search for the perfect apples, the ones that don’t have bruising or rotten spots and are usually inconveniently placed high up and towards the center of the tree. So having Bucky along is actually proving more helpful than Steve had thought, since the taller man doesn’t seem to mind helping Steve to reach those more elusive fruits. They quickly figure out a system: they stroll along, Steve spots, Bucky lifts, and soon apple after apple fills the two baskets, leaving them with nothing left to do but make their way back to the front of the orchard.

The wagon bumps along in the heavily grooved path between the rows and Steve stays bent over it protectively, keeping his hands on the baskets to make sure the apples don’t fall out or knock around too much. And as much as Bucky laughs and shakes his head, they make it to the little building to pay without a single apple falling astray.

The next part, however, Steve is a little dubious about. But he’s determined nonetheless, and with a quick intake of breath he grabs the first bag of apples and heaves it up onto the counter, not daring to stop before grabbing the other and doing the same. The woman at the register smiles at him as she weighs and calculates and punches everything in, but Steve’s more focused on the way Bucky is suddenly standing right at his shoulder, not so subtly edging Steve to his other side-- the side furthest away from the apples.

“I can get ‘em down, Buck.” Steve huffs, rolling his eyes and pulling out his wallet to pay. He may not be the strongest person in the world, but he manages just fine thank you very much.

“I know,” is Bucky’s response, because he _does_ know. But maybe he wants to be a good boyfriend every once in a while and not see Steve throw his back out doing simple tasks.

The woman is looking at them fondly and Steve feels his ears go a bit red as he hands over the necessary bills.

Bucky swoops in and grabs both bags off the counter during the transaction, purposefully avoiding Steve’s wrath and opting to start the walk back to the truck while Steve receives his change.

He expects to get shit for it, some real _“Damnit, Buck, I can do these things by myself,”_ so when Steve pops up next to him just as he reaches the pickup truck, he automatically says, “Just getting a move on. Still got a lotta shit to do here, don’t we?”

And Steve just kind of glares at him, but the apples are slung into the back of the truck (carefully, so Steve doesn’t have a heart attack about them getting bruised), and then they’re on their way back and towards the pumpkin patch.

Bucky has to admit that it’s the perfect weather for this--walking around for what feels like hours while Steve prances amongst the pumpkins, evaluating each one with a discerning eye. It’s like the apples again but much more involved this time, because Steve has to crouch down and inspect every side before deeming it unworthy on the grounds of irregular shape or scratch marks or just simply _“No._ ” which, Bucky supposes, is a good enough answer for him.

Because Steve’s in his element--is so fucking happy with everything right now, and that makes it really hard to not smile like a fool as Bucky watches him go about his business. There’s only one thing that has Bucky’s smile faltering, and that’s when Steve suddenly whips a crazy big pocket knife out of fucking nowhere. Like it’s normal.

“Jesus Christ, Steve.” Bucky’s face twists into a comical display of both concern and startlement. “Where the hell were you keeping that thing?”

“In its case?” Steve says, because really this isn’t hard to figure out. He angles his hips a bit so Bucky can clearly see the leather pouch hooked through his belt loop. “Now, take a few steps back while I cut this one free.”

He crouches over his chosen pumpkin, brushing off some of the mud caked to its side as Bucky wanders back towards one of the main paths. Then, once satisfied Bucky is outside of the prescribed safety circle, he flips open his knife and lines it up at the junction where the stem of the pumpkin meets the rest of the vine and cuts through with one firm swipe of his arm. There’s a bit of mud on the blade so Steve wipes it off on his jeans before folding it shut and slipping it back into its case. “Alright,” Steve nods. “One down, seven more to go.” Then he stands, keeping his arms wrapped firmly around the pumpkin as he starts making his way towards where they left the wagon.

He makes it about five feet before he realizes Bucky isn’t following behind him, no tell-tale sound of boots stepping through the tangle of vines or the occasional _shlick_ of feet sliding into mud. Turning back, he lifts an eyebrow and hefts the pumpkin more onto one hip. “You coming, Buck?”

And Bucky’s just standing there, a pained look on his face as he stuffs his hands in the pocket of his hoodie. “...did you just say ‘seven more’? Like...we’re bringing home eight pumpkins?”

“Yeah, of course.” Steve says, continuing on his way to the wagon and speaking a little louder so Bucky can hear. “Five for my house, and I figured three for yours, but if you want to get more that’s fine too.”

Bucky grumbles, but then is right next to Steve, plucking the pumpkin from his clutches. Because If there are seven more, Steve is for sure going to throw something out carrying them all. “The fuck do you need five pumpkins for?”

Steve spares a moment to glare at Bucky for stealing his pumpkin (he was managing just fine on his own, even if his lungs were starting to get a bit tight), but then decides he might as well use the free labor while he can. Plus, it frees up his arms in case he sees another pumpkin he wants, and he can tick off with his fingers as he says, “Well, there’s one for the hearth, three for the front stoop-- one of which will be a Jack-o-Lantern, and then one for my room. So that’s five.”

“Jesus…” Bucky mutters under his breath before leaning down and dropping the first of eight into the wagon. “Well I don’t need three. So...guess that brings it down to…” math is hard.

“You definitely need three, one for the hearth and two for the stoop.” Steve walks past where Bucky is lowering the pumpkin into the wagon and starts maneuvering his way through another patch of thick vines and tangling leaves. “I already figured you wouldn’t want a lot so I cut it down.”

Bucky rolls his eyes, dusting off the dirt that the pumpkin left on his hoodie. “Aren’t you thoughtful…”

Steve just shoots him a look, then returns to his hunt, hopping over brambles and across giant mud trenches in the hopes of finding another pumpkin to add to their wagon. He’s sees a promising shape about ten yards away and starts off across the pumpkin patch to inspect it more closely.

And it is _gorgeous,_ a nice, bright orange with a taller, slimmer shape. Perfect to match the more squat one he’s already gotten for the front stoop.

His knife is out in a flash and he cuts through the stem, hefting the thing into his arms and secretly enjoying the bit of mud that gets smeared across his chin in the process. Because it’s all part of the experience, and Steve loves every dirty inch of it.

As he gets closer to Bucky, the other man is already holding out his arms expectantly, and at first Steve glares him down, pulls the pumpkin tighter to his chest, but then Bucky just smirks this smug little grin and says, “Seeing as you’re the pumpkin expert, I’ll just take this back to the wagon and let you keep looking. Wouldn’t want a newbie like me getting the wrong pumpkin, right?”

“You’ll pick your own pumpkins, Buck. That’s what makes ‘em special. But we can get mine out of the way first, that way I can help you.” He hands the pumpkin over, then eyes Bucky up and down, taking in the easy slope of his lips and the just slightly too polished still oh so very city slicker aura around him. “Especially since you’d probably end up picking a rotten one or something.”

Bucky scoffs, confident in his pumpkin-selecting abilities. He may not be an expert, but he’s almost positive that he’d know when something is rotten or not. Christ. “You gonna hold my hand, too?”

“Only if you ask nicely,” Steve teases, giving Bucky a wink while he’s at it before turning on his heel and sauntering back off through the pumpkin patch.

Bucky shakes his head, a fond smile gracing his lips as he follows behind Steve, dragging the wagon with more and more of a struggle as more and more pumpkins make their way through the selection process. And Steve is in the zone, mentally measuring and critiquing and picking the cream of the crop, so Bucky doesn’t interrupt the process--just hangs back and watches.

Because Steve always comes back to him, face lit with excitement about his pick--like he’s eager to show Bucky how well he’s done. It’s more than a little adorable, but Bucky doesn’t say anything. Because the second Steve knows he’s being adorable, he usually stops--huffs and mumbles something and squares his shoulders a little bit. So Bucky just stands back and enjoys it silently until the wagon is filled with both of their selections and they’re headed out of the patch.

Or at least they _were_ headed out of the patch, nearly there, so close Bucky could taste it...and then Steve stopped again, darted out into the small patch to their right before Bucky could even open his mouth to protest.

“Just a minute, Buck!” Steve calls back, already elbow deep in a tangle of pumpkin vine. “Gotta get the baby pumpkins…” he trails off as he finally plucks the flash of orange he’d seen beneath the green, a perfect little pumpkin that fits in his hand. And he usually only gets one, carries it around from his desk to the table to the living room, wherever he’s spending his time, but this year he knows he needs two. One for him and one for Bucky.

And he thinks it’s a small piece of autumn magic when he cuts through this little pumpkin’s stem and the arch of his arm displaces some vines as well, revealing another tiny orange sphere half buried in mud and hidden in a bramble plant. But it’s there, and it’s perfect-- he knows it is before he even pulls it out. The slice-swipe-click of his knife is automatic and then he’s standing, the two little pumpkins cradled in his hands as he makes his way back to where Bucky’s waiting.

Bucky bites back the incredible urge to equate Steve to a mini-pumpkin--knows he’s going to get his ass kicked if he so much as mentions it. So instead, he accepts the one that is given to him and says, “Done?” even though he wants to say, _“You know,_ you’re _a lot like a mini-pumpkin, Stevie.”_

“Yeah, let’s go measure ‘em and pay.” And since they’ve gotten so many pumpkins, Steve is once again on wagon-guarding duty, holding the six they’ve somehow got balanced in the wagon in place with one of the smaller picks wedged under an arm, Bucky pulling the wagon with another pumpkin hefted onto his shoulder. (The two baby pumpkins had ended up tucked into the pocket of Bucky’s hoodie and Steve had just barely suppressed an embarrassing-on-all-fronts coo when Bucky’d slipped them into the fabric.) But that autumn magic is working again, taking them all the way to the measuring board without any catastrophes.

The measuring board is the weirdest damn thing Bucky has ever seen in his life. When Steve had said “measure them”, he had assumed that meant, like...weigh them...or use a tape measurer or some shit, not _this_. Because this, this is sticking your pumpkin through a hole in a board and figuring out what size it’s closest to and just--... What the actual fuck _is_ this?

“Wouldn’t it be easier to just weigh them?” Bucky grumbles, but Steve is too busy trying to lift the biggest fucking pumpkin they found up onto the board. Of course he is. “Jesus, give that to me.”

Bucky ends up “measuring” almost every single pumpkin, maneuvering each of them through a hole that looks the closest to the pumpkin’s size. It’s a gigantic pain in the ass and Steve is whining because he wants to do some and Bucky is just 1,000% done with the entire experience by the time the last one is back into the wagon.

“What a fucking shitshow…” he says under his breath, but he knows Steve hears him because he’s getting that _“There are children here, damnit”_ face. So he just plunges his hands into the pocket of his hoodie again and waits for further instruction.

“Language, Buck.” Steve warns, still slightly peeved that Bucky’d commandeered all of the measuring but not willing to let anything kill his mood. “Now wait here while I pay and then we can get these to the truck.”

The process takes longer than Bucky wants, leaving him to stand there with a scowl on his face and his hands shoved in his pocket and a metaphorical raincloud hovering above his head as children scream and run around him. But then Steve’s back, the smile on his face fighting off the raincloud as he saunters back over to Bucky.

“Ready?” Bucky says, and when Steve nods, clearly proud of his purchases, Bucky bends down to pick up the wagon handle and pull it towards the truck.

“Ready.” Steve agrees, following diligently at the wagon’s side until they’re safely back at the truck. “And now we’ve just got to get them in the b-” The pumpkin in his arms suddenly disappears and he has just enough time to shoot Bucky a scowl before the other man has to lean into the truck bed. “I can do it myself, you know. A little lifting isn’t going to kill me.”

“You’re wheezing,” Bucky states matter-of-factly, picking the next pumpkin up from the wagon and heaving that onto the truck too.

Steve doesn't know why he’s shocked at that explanation, really, considering he’s known for awhile that Bucky cares about him and does his best to keep Steve safe (see: hovers like an overprotective teddy bear half the time), but he hadn’t known Bucky kept tabs on him quite _that_ close. He hadn’t even realized his wheezing that much himself, especially since he’s gotten so used to it and was so caught up in running around the pumpkin patch. “I-- Yeah, but I can still lift a pumpkin without dying.”

Bucky hasn’t stopped loading them into the truck--just kind of looks at Steve and says, “I know,” and then picks up the next with a tiny huff of air, the repeated action of squat, lift, push starting to get to him a little. “Don’t wanna risk it though.”

And, well, yeah...Steve no longer has any doubts in his mind that Bucky cares about him (not that he did before), and he can’t help the blush that’s crept up the back of his neck. To distract himself from the way his heart has started to beat faster in his chest, blood rushing uncomfortably past his ears, he swoops down and grabs the wagon handle, mumbling something about putting it back before escaping for a few moments to calm down.

After all, it wouldn’t be good if he were to break down and pin Bucky to the side of the pickup in the middle of everything. (PDA still isn’t something he’s entirely comfortable with.)

The wagon’s squeak echos off into the distance as Steve pulls it away, leaving Bucky to make sure the pumpkins are packed in safely for the drive. Once he hears Steve approaching him once again, he leans back against the tailgate. “Ready to head home?”

And Steve just stares at him for a moment, thankful his traitorous heart is back in line, before shaking his head. “No, we’ve still got to go to the store.” Then, seeing the way Bucky’s face falls a bit, he adds, “C’mon, it’ll be fun. I promise.” He bumps lightly against Bucky’s side and curls fingers around the soft fabric at Bucky’s wrist, tugging him off of the pickup and towards the little country road they need to cross to reach the store. “There’ll even be food.”

Bucky maybe perks up at that, especially since the last thing he ate (against Steve’s judgemental stare) was dinner the night before. “Food, huh?” he asks, letting Steve pull him toward the small building.

“Yup,” Steve smiles. And then he bites his lip, decides maybe a _little_ PDA won’t be so bad and slowly slides his hand down, linking his fingers with Bucky’s and keeping his eyes straight ahead as they walk towards the store. “They’ve got all kinds of produce and things, and there’s a separate building where we can buy actual lunch if you want. But the best part is the caramel apples and the apple cider. We definitely have to get those.”

“Not enough apples for you yet, I see…” Bucky grumbles, but the prospect of a sticky, sweet caramel apple does sound like a promising sugar rush. “Are you gonna pick the ones at the top of the fucking shelf? Or will the ones at your height be good enough for you?”

Steve just rolls his eyes, “There aren’t any high shelves. So don’t worry, you won’t have to strain yourself picking me up.”

Bucky pulls Steve closer into his space, squeezing their fingers tighter together. “Might haveta pick you up anyway,” he says. Because he may complain about it, but it also amuses Bucky that Steve allows him and only him to pick him up, ever since the day he fell out of Mrs. Whatserface’s tree trying to get that cat down.

Bucky’s spared Steve’s more snarky response, since they’ve now walked through the door to the store and are surrounded by sweet elderly ladies and small children, but Steve still manages to grumble an _‘I’d like to see you try’_ that Bucky just chuckles at, giving Steve’s hand another squeeze as Steve drags them past the front counter to the first section of the store: the table of gourds and decorative corn.

And gourds are some of Steve’s favorite things, there are so many kinds: bumpy or smooth, curvy and bulbous or long and straight, green and orange and white or a mixture of all three. Every single one is unique and Steve always loves picking out the ones for his mom to put on their mantle. So he grabs one of the little brown paper bags next to the table and taps Bucky’s hip with their intertwined hands, “Hold this for me?”

Bucky picks the bag from Steve’s clutches and then holds it out, realizing full well that this would be a whole hell of a lot easier if they weren’t holding hands, but he’s not about to pass up on Steve being semi-comfortable with PDA. This shit doesn’t happen every day, so Bucky takes what he can get.

The gourds that Steve picks from the group are strangely shaped, all bumpy and weird colors. More than once, Bucky has to stop himself from mentioning the phallic qualities of certain gourds as Steve handles them before placing them in the bag. But he holds himself together, doesn’t blurt out _“you realize that’s totally a dick right?”_ and manages to close the bag with one hand because their fingers are still laced together.

The store itself has a lot of really questionable items, Bucky realizes as they peruse the aisles. Cranberry salsa sounds good, he supposes, he could get into that. But pickled baby corns? The the fuck are those even?

It’s when they get to a small wrack of bagged candies--that’s when Bucky finally can’t keep a lid on his inappropriate musings.

“Horehound Candy?” He smirks, reaching out to pluck one of the bags from the metal wires and take a closer look at the bold, black lettering scrawled across the middle. “ _Hore…hound_? You’ve gotta be shittin’ me.”

“What?” Steve asks absent-mindedly, more preoccupied with the little jar of chocolate honey on a nearby shelf than whatever’s grabbed Bucky’s attention. “What’s wrong?”

Bucky thrusts the bag in front of Steve’s nose, too impatient to wait for him to tune in on his own. “Horehound,” he smirks, finding it really goddamn hard not to erupt into a fit of immature giggles. “I mean, c’mon.”

“Buck,” Steve sighs, “Really? It’s not even spelled the same. They’re just lozenges for sore throats and things, only sweeter tasting since they’re covered in sugar.”

“Sore throats, huh?” Bucky’s grin seriously cannot get any wider at this point, his eyebrows now waggling as his brain fills with all manner of inappropriate thoughts.

And at first, Steve doesn’t get it, then all of a sudden a horrible kind of realization hits as his mind connects the dots and _oh._ He feels himself blush and lets out a single cough. “I really don’t think that’s what they had in mind, Buck.” And with that, he promptly plucks the bag from Bucky’s hand and turns towards the counter, effectively ending the conversation before it can get any more out of hand. (After all, he knows by now just how quickly and how _far_ Bucky’s mind can go into the gutter.)

He takes the candies, their bag of gourds, and the little bundle of corn he’d insisted Bucky get for his room and puts them up by the register. There are a few other patrons milling about and Steve flushes slightly as he extricates his hand from Bucky’s hold (he needs both hands to get at his wallet, anyway) and covers the twinge of loss by making small talk with the cashier. They, at least, seem pleasantly oblivious to the questionable conversation that just took place a few feet away, only smiling curiously at the way Bucky is snickering at Steve’s elbow as they finally push back out into the crisp fall air.

Steve, however, doesn’t have time for Bucky’s perversion, because he knows what comes next and is already hurrying to the next building over, hand seamlessly finding Bucky’s again as he leads them along faster.

And Bucky’s not _complaining_ , per say, quite the contrary. It’s no easy task to maintain his naturally rough Brooklyn exterior when Steve initiates public hand holding. So he’s not _complaining_ , he just doesn’t understand the sudden rush. “Where’s the fire, pal?”

Steve ignores him, not slowing down at all, because they’re nearly at the entrance to the makeshift old-storage-facility-turned-store and Steve can practically _taste_ the caramel on his tongue. He’s waited a year for this moment, and it’s so close, so, _so_ close, and Bucky is even here for him to share it with.

There’s not much one can really do when Steve gets a wild hair about stuff like this - darting off and eyes set on the prize. So Bucky just lets himself be pulled behind him, legs picking up speed as the two of them finally pass through the entrance.

And it’s everything Steve remembers, everything he’s waited for up until this point. There’s the plastic tables with their little displays of homemade baked goods, chocolate covered pretzels and fudge; there’s the clear plastic windows to heaven showing cider and cider slushies; and finally, _finally_ , there’s the table with the caramel apples. There’s plain, nuts, and some kind of deluxe thing that Steve has shunted since its inception on the basis that it’s called a caramel _apple_ for a reason and if an ingredient panel has to go beyond the perfunctory apple, caramel, and maybe nuts...then it’s a step too far in Steve’s opinion. But he’s not here to hold onto that grudge. He’s here to buy the real deal and bring Bucky on a pilgrimage into what autumn is all about.

“So, you want yours with or without nuts?” He asks, already mulling over what else he should get, if he should bring his mama back chocolate or peanut butter fudge. Probably both.

“I dunno…” Bucky mumbles, eyeing the intriguing display of apples spread before him. He didn’t even know it was possible to get marshmallows to stick to a caramel apple. “...that one with the M&Ms looks pretty good.”

Steve stares at him unblinkingly, wondering if he just pretends that comment didn’t exist it will just go away. “Bucky, no.” He says, “No.”

Bucky’s brow furrows as he takes a step back to get a better look at Steve, caught off guard by his firm and immediate judgement. “‘No’, _what_?”

“Just...no.” Steve shakes his head and steps up to the counter, ignoring Bucky’s confused grumble from behind him. “We’ll have two caramel apples, please. And also some of your chocolate and peanut butter fudge.” He turns back to Bucky again, prays his heart doesn’t have to go through anymore pain, and asks, “You want any cider, Buck?”

Bucky blinks at him, dumbfounded. Fuck his cider. “...I want an M&M apple.”

“No,” Steve repeats again, because honestly Bucky is like a child who doesn’t know about the good things in life yet. It’s for his own good, really. He turns back to the counter before Bucky can argue more. “Can we have a cider slushie as well?”

The older gentleman behind the table laughs lightly at the exchange but nods, turning away to putter around behind the tables and gather everything Steve had requested. It only takes a minute and before long, Steve is striding back out through the doors with three bags and one cold cup in hand, an undeniable skip to his step as he makes his way across gravel and well-trodden grass. (Bucky is still grumbling about M&Ms but Steve’s chosen not to focus on that. At least, not until they make it to the truck.)

“Alright,” he says, stashing the bag with his mother’s fudge in the front seat before brandishing the rest of their treasures in Bucky’s direction. “Are you ready for the best thing ever?”

“Now where have I heard that before?” Bucky grins, although they both know the answer to that question...all the places that Steve had dragged him to this summer--his first summer in Pikesville--all the things he goaded him into trying, each moment prefaced by _Are you ready for the best thing ever?_ or something strikingly similar.

Steve smiles fondly at the memories but is still too set in the here and now, especially since the here and now contains caramel apples. Still, he manages to shoot off a cheeky, “Right before having your mind blown and your horizons broadened,” before he eyes the tailgate of the truck and holds their treats out in Bucky’s direction. “Can you hold these for a second?”

Bucky does him one better, bending down to loop his arms just below Steve’s ass (and ignoring the indignant huff he receives) before lifting him up and plopping him down onto the edge of the truck bed. The truck doesn’t even shift from the added weight. It’s fucking adorable. “There,” Bucky smiles lazily, gearing up for Steve’s impending sass. “Much easier.”

Steve glares at Bucky as the other man swings himself up onto the truck, plunking down right next to Steve and bumping him lightly with his shoulder. “Could’ve done that myself,” Steve says, back straight and eyes defiant.

“You sure? Dunno if you could’ve reached,” Bucky hums, adding another teasing shoulder bump. “It’s a good thing I was here.”

Steve’s glare intensifies. “I would’ve been just fine, thank you.” He sets their things down on the truck bed and makes to hop back down to the ground. “I’ll prove it to you…”

Bucky watches with amusement, trying fairly hard not to let the grin break through his otherwise encouraging facade. “Don’t hurt yourself, pal.” He offers, and then yep, there’s that grin. Damn it’s hard to have a poker face with Steve actually fucking _rolling up his sleeves_ like it’s going to help him scale the truck bed.

With his shirt no longer in danger of getting caught and ripped on any part of the tailgate, Steve gets himself into position and does the little hop-and-heave that he perfected years ago, as soon as he’d been tall enough to get his hands up on the back of the truck. His arms shakes and his chest tightens at the effort but he ends up once again seated by Bucky’s side nevertheless, very carefully keeping his breathing even as he levels Bucky with a _look._ “There. I can do it just fine.”

Bucky allows his amused grin to resurface as he shakes his head, constantly entertained by the lengths that Steve will go to prove himself. “Good job, babe,” he says, wrapping an arm around Steve and pulling him closely to place a kiss to his temple.

And Steve startles, surprised at both the endearment and the rather sudden affection. But he should be used to it by now, really, Bucky’s had an uncanny ability to go from arguing to sweet talking ever since Steve first met him, after all. But still… “Babe?” He echoes quietly, trying out the word against his own lips. Then he shrugs, deciding Bucky can call him pretty much whatever he wants so long as it isn’t something offensive and meant in good heart.

“So are we gonna eat these things or what?”

“Oh no, we don’t eat them.” Steve says solemnly, pulling one apple from its bag and cradling it in both of his hands. “We just look at them, appreciate their beauty…” He tries his best to keep his face completely impassive, his voice deadpan, and waits for the moment when he or Bucky finally cracks.

Bucky studies him closely, all these months with Steve providing him with plenty of experience with the man’s sarcasm, and yet sometimes he still can’t pinpoint what’s sarcasm and what’s seriousness. So Bucky just wings it. “See, that sounds like some kinda shit that you would do,” he works out, eyes narrowing as he observes him a moment more, “but I’ve never seen you turn down something sweet. So you’re fulla shit.” And with that, Bucky plucks the apple from Steve’s hands and begins to pull at the wrapper.

Caught out, Steve chuckles lightly and pulls the second apple from its bag, grasping the wooden skewer and pulling back just enough of the paper that he could get a good bite without worrying about biting into something non-apple. Juice dribbles down his chin and he licks at his lips, tilting his head back as well to stop any more from escaping. And it’s somehow even better than he remembers. The apple’s perfect kind of sour and the thick, sticky sweetness of the caramel making his brain explode with joy. He lets out a low moan of satisfaction and takes his next bite, already planning on how to make the moment last as long as possible. “So good,” he mumbles around the food in his mouth, not even caring. He wipes at his mouth a bit with his shirt sleeve but is fully aware that the battle is pointless (but the sticky patch around his wrist has become a badge of honor throughout the years so he carries on regardless).

And Bucky is just sitting there, blinking slowly as he watches Steve lose himself, eyes rolling into the back of his head as he helps himself to another succulent bite. Bucky hasn’t even taken _one_ bite yet, too distracted by the outrageous noises that Steve must be _somewhat_ aware he’s making. “I’m sorry, is this an orchard or a porno?”

Steve stops chewing for a moment and turns to Bucky with a single eyebrow lifted. “A what?”

“Huh?” Bucky may or may not be distracted by the way Steve’s lips shine from the sweetness of the caramel. “A porno,” he repeats himself, dragging his eyes back up to Steve’s, who is presenting him with another raised eyebrow. “Porn?” Bucky tries again...

Steve shrugs his shoulders. “Another Brooklyn thing?” He takes another bite of apple and starts swinging one of his feet where its dangling off the bed of the truck. “Don’t know what you’re talking about, Buck. But I _do_ know that if you don’t start eating your apple, I’m gonna do it for you.”

...Bucky…

...Bucky doesn’t know how to respond to that. _Another Brooklyn thing?_ Holy Christ, is Steve really that endearingly innocent?

“Uh…” he manages, looking back down at the apple and trying to get his brain to focus on something besides the intense debate on whether or not to pursue this porn conversation any further. He goes with, “Yeah…” which is not exactly poetry, but it certainly fills the otherwise awkward silence.

Steve wipes at his chin again then kicks at Bucky’s foot with his own. “You okay?” Because Bucky’s looking a little shaken at the moment, not to mention that he still hasn’t touched his apple.

The kick jolts Bucky’s attention back, because yes he was definitely launching into that debate in his head right then. “You know I’ve never had one of these before,” he veers off, holding the apple up by the stick and examining it in the sunlight. “At least not one like this.”

“That’s because you’re uncultured.” Steve says, patting Bucky’s knee. “But it’s okay, because you’re getting your education now.” He takes another bite of apple, hums happily at the taste, then adds, “Better late than never, now eat your apple so I can watch a young boy take his first steps into becoming a man.”

Bucky shoots him a look, but only for a moment, because then he’s peeling the wrapper off all the way, noting how some of the caramel sticks stubbornly to the paper. He looks at the wrapper for a moment before handing it to Steve without a word. Only then does he take a bite, the sweetness and the tartness all wrapped into one fucking amazing mouthful that prompts him to take another bite right away, hand still stretched out and presenting the caramel remains to Steve.

And no, _no,_ it just isn’t possible for someone to be so utterly clueless. First the M&M treachery and now _this_? Steve stares at Bucky in barely masked horror. “Bucky, what’re you doing?”

Bucky doesn’t wait to finish his mouthful, eyebrow raising as he mumbles, “Bein’ a nice fucking boyfriend and letting you have the caramel?”

“No, no, you have to eat it.” Steve shakes his head. “You can’t just pass off one of the most important part of caramel apple eating. It’s unethical.”

Bucky resists the urge to roll his eyes. Steve and his fucking rules. “Christ…fine,” he huffs, dropping the wrapper into his own lap in defeat. He lets Steve have his little moment before nudging him once more. “Know what would make this better?”

“What?” Steve asks, honestly curious, because the moment already seems perfect as it is.

And Bucky just smiles, amused with himself as he glances over at Steve and says, “M&Ms.”

Steve’s expression shutters off. “Heathen…” he mutters, taking another bite of his apple, almost gone now, and chewing slowly to savor the _untainted_ caramelly goodness. “Can’t believe I put up with you.”

Bucky chuckles, still entertained, before picking up the wrapper again and bringing it up to his lips to lick the caramel off the wax paper. “Me neither.”  

“Well, I did hit my head pretty hard falling out of that tree.” Steve grins, taking the last bite out of his apple and throwing the stick and core back into the bag. “That’s really the only explanation I can think of.” Then he grabs the wrapper, arguably the best part of this whole experience, and folds it up so he can pop it into his mouth to expertly suck off all the caramel. It’s heaven, and still lets out an appreciative sound at the smooth taste.

Bucky resists the urge to bring up the pornographic qualities of the sight before him again, instead focussing on what Steve had said. Steve _had_ hit his head pretty hard back then, but it was his own fault for climbing up there in the first place, regardless of whether or not Mrs. Whatserface wanted her cat down or not. “Wow, Steve. Tell me how you really feel.”

And normally, Steve would respond to that with an eyeroll or a snort, some kind of sassy remark for good measure. But there’s something about the way Bucky’s hair looks tousled by the cool breeze, the way his cheeks are slightly flushed with cold and his fingers sticky with caramel, hands covered in dirt and a few brambles still stuck to his jeans, that makes Steve decide to do something else instead. He just hopes he can run fast enough.

Spitting the used wrapper back into the bag and wiping slightly at his mouth with the back of his sleeve, he leans forward to grin at Bucky, say a disarming, “You know I love ya, Buck,” before closing the final distance between them and planting a kiss just at the corner of Bucky’s lips. It’s quick and sloppy and caramel-sticky and Bucky’s going to kill him. So before he can, Steve jumps off the truck bed and starts running as fast as he can towards his last hope at survival: the corn maze.

It all happens so fast that Bucky barely has time to react, just kind of sitting there for a moment before he realizes what’s happened. And then he’s rubbing frantically at the side of his mouth with his sleeve, the sticky residue that Steve left in his wake not wiping off very easily. But it’s fine, because it’s not long before Bucky’s jumping down off the bed of the truck, not even bothering to shut the tailgate before barreling after Steve with a flustered but still highly amused, “STEVE.”

He follows Steve’s retreating form, dodging the one judgemental look that is thrown his way by an elderly woman carrying a sack of apples. He’s almost certain he’s got Steve cornered until the little shit makes a sharp left, veering off the path and towards somewhere else entirely. It isn’t until Bucky starts gaining on him that he realizes exactly where Steve is headed.

“Seriously?” he calls out, but the smile plastered across his face does little to hide his amusement.

Because then Steve’s _sprinting_ and disappearing into the entrance of the corn maze up ahead.

Bucky’s pace slows as he finally reaches the entrance himself, ducking in and immediately surveying his choices of which direction to go before noticing the flash of blue and green flannel that streaks to his left. A predatorial grin immediately dances across his face as he picks up speed, hot on Steve’s trail as he rounds the corner. “M’comin’ for ya, Stevie.”

Steve’s breaths are coming out in pants, mixing with the sounds of his footsteps heavy on the ground, slipping through mud and soggy leaves. The corn stalks are tall enough that he can’t see over them, which means Bucky shouldn’t be able to see him either and he clings to that thought as he runs, keeping his arms tucked close to his sides so he doesn’t shake the cornstalks and make it even easier for Bucky to catch him. He reaches a fork and throws a quick, “My grandma moves faster,” over his shoulder before ducking right and sprinting to make it around the next bend before Bucky can tell where he’s gone.

It works. It works really fucking well. Because Bucky has _no clue_ where this little shit got off to when he reaches the fork.

Bucky comes to a quick halt, his feet slamming down into the grass in attempt to avoid running face first into the wall of cornstalks directly in front of him. He takes a second to catch his breath as he listens closely for any signs of Steve’s whereabouts. (Unsurprisingly, it’s difficult to pick up on those kinds of subtle intricacies when there are children screaming at the tops of their lungs not too far away.)

It’s taking far too much time, Steve getting farther and farther away with every second Bucky wastes trying to make a decision. So he figures _fuck it_ , and starts his steady pace towards the right.

And Steve gets about a minute of relative peace and safety before he hears Bucky on his tail again. They’re almost at the end of the maze and Steve’s been forced to slow down in order to keep his lungs from ruining the entire day, a decision that leads to him taking a purposefully incorrect turn, slowing to a jog down a dead end so that at least Bucky’s revenge won’t have to be a public display. No irate mothers or cranky old folks to stare them down while Bucky flips Steve over or smears mud on his shirt to get even. The corn stalks rustle around him as a particularly strong gust of wind blows through the maze, muffling the sound of footsteps approaching from behind.

When Bucky pounces from his creep up to the seemingly unaware blonde, he feels like a ninja or some shit like that. And what’s even better is how he gets his hands up, grabbing Steve’s waist _right_ where he knows he’s most sensitive, because that’s when Steve lets out this quiet little yelp that Bucky knows he’ll deny until the day he dies.

“Gotchya, punk.” A proud grin sweeps across Bucky’s face when Steve turns in his hold, glaring up at him like he’s going to say _Wow, Buck, you’re such a child_ or _Really, Barnes?_ or _You think you’re cute, don’t you?_ It’s undoubtedly going to be one of those things, so Bucky beats him to the punch, the caramel apple remnants sticky on his cheek as he smiles. “You missed the first time, punk.”

Steve’s brow furrows, clearly not following Bucky’s train of thought. But it’s okay, because then Bucky is walking him backwards until his back is nearly against the corn stalks, his lips coming down to brush against his sweetly.

And Steve...Steve doesn’t really know what’s happening. Well, he _knows._ He knows that Bucky’s caught him and has for some reason decided the next best course of action is to kiss him. But that doesn’t mean Steve hasn’t any idea as to what’s _actually_ going on. His eyes are wide with shock and his hands are limp and useless against Bucky’s chest, placed there with the intent of pushing Bucky away but now finding themselves without purpose. Because right now, Steve isn’t sure he wants to push Bucky away.

The leaf-covered ground crunches beneath Bucky’s boot as he presses forward, thrilled to death with how much PDA he’s getting away with today. The desire to say something snarky right about now is strong, but he doesn’t want to press his luck. So Bucky simply presses in closely to Steve, one hand coming up from his waist to rest against the side of his neck as he sneaks a nibble on Steve’s bottom lip while he still has the chance.

Steve positively _does not_ make any kind of noise at that. He doesn’t. Really. If anything, the surprised squeaking sound is some kind of animal hiding in the corn, or maybe just the wind. But it’s definitely not his reaction to Bucky being so close, sweatshirt soft and warm between Steve’s now clenched fingers. And he doesn’t know when he went from wanting to push Bucky away to pulling him closer but he’s there now, surprised and shocked and a little ~~scared~~ wary because they’re in _public_ for Pete’s sake but Bucky just feels so good and right and Steve really can’t find it in himself to do anything but part his lips ever so slightly and taste the caramel flavor still lingering at Bucky’s mouth.

It’s the best kind of surprise, and Bucky’s not going to make any sudden movements here because seeing Steve act like this in public is rare. And amazing. And mindblowing. And Bucky plans on appreciating every second he’s got, including marveling at the way the sunlight hits Steve’s hair so gorgeously like that. He pulls back for just a moment, to gauge where they’re at (he holds no illusions that Steve wouldn’t kick his ass into next week should he overstep any bounds, but he figures better safe than sorry), but Steve’s just looking up at him with these wide, wide eyes, lips still parted and cheeks flushed and adorable crinkle between his brows that means he’s confused at something. Presumably, in this instance, as to why Bucky’s pulled away.

He wastes no time in leaning back in, head tilted more to the side, catching Steve’s mouth perfectly and tipping his head back, sliding his palm up the side of Steve’s neck to cup the nape of it instead and brush his thumb against the soft hairs there.

The air is as crisp and cool around them as it has been the entire day, but Steve now feels infinitely warmer. It’s like summer all over again, warm sun on his skin and Bucky’s cheeky grin down at the pond, nights up on the roof and countless days together in the fields. But now he’s making more memories, memories with rustling cornstalks at his back and hazy grey skies overhead. There’s a hitch in his chest from the cold, but he doesn’t even have the time to be disappointed, because Bucky simply presses another kiss to his lips then moves even closer, wrapping Steve in his arms and nuzzling at his jaw, stubble scratching at Steve’s skin warm and harsh at the same time. (It might not exactly be helping him get his breath back but he appreciates it nonetheless.)

He doesn’t know how long they stand like that, a bubble of comfortable warmth in a back corner of the maze, but between a few more stolen kisses and the taste of caramel forever changed in his mind, it’s gotten later than either of them had planned. Their hands find each other again and Steve lets Bucky pull him in for one last lingering press of lips, blinking away the haze in the afternoon light when they finally make their way back out into the parking area.

Bucky climbs into the driver’s seat before Steve has a chance to protest. (And they both know he would, even with the way his posture is sagging a little, eyes half lidded as he pulls at his seatbelt.) It’s been a long day--successful--but long. And as Bucky pulls out of the parking area, the gravel crunching beneath the truck’s tires, he glances over at Steve with a fond little smile. “This was a good idea,” he says quietly, admiring how Steve has already curled up and rested his head against the window. “Thanks for taking me.”

“Course,” Steve mumbles, focusing on the fields rolling by instead of the slight ache in his arms and chest. “Gonna show you everything, Buck.”

It’s one of those cute little things that Steve lets slip when he’s drained from a long day, and it never ceases to make Bucky feel like he’s floating. But he doesn’t mention it--just lets Steve look out the window, the setting sun illuminating him in glow that somehow makes him impossibly more beautiful.

Field after field of corn passes by but Steve’s breathing never seems to even out like it usually does after a while. Bucky gives it a few more minutes, trying not to overreact, before reaching over and tugging gently at Steve’s sleeve. “Hey. C’mere, punk.”

Steve rolls his head against the cool glass and fixes Bucky with a look. “You realize you’re supposed to be driving, right?”

“I am,” Bucky answers calmly, instead of throwing back his usual sarcastic comment. Because this is not about being sassy. This is about getting Steve to feel better. He gives one more tug on the flannel. “C’mon. Please?”

“What am I even supposed to be doing?” Steve grouses, pushing himself up off the window and scooting closer to Bucky regardless. He’s really not in the mood to be dealing with any of Bucky’s tricks right now, but he seems sincere enough.

Bucky follows Steve’s movements, pulling him closer until Steve’s leaning snugly against his side. He throws an arm around him, fingers tracing calmly over Steve’s chest like he’s learned to do when Steve’s lungs give him trouble.

Steve seems to melt into him, his head resting on his shoulder. So Bucky just keeps driving, eyes on the quiet country road and fingers brushing until Steve’s breathing has calmed into the slow, steady rhythm of sleep.

Bucky can’t help the grin that pulls at the corners of his mouth, the feeling of Steve falling asleep next to him something he’ll never get used to. But it’s a good thing. Because Steve’s going to need all the energy he can get for when they get home and have to unload the truck, not to mention start in on whatever crazy autumn-theme activities Steve already has planned. Like pumpkin carving, and pie baking, and probably some other crazy shit that Bucky’s never even heard of. But he bet it involves corn. Yeah. Twenty bucks says it involves corn.

 ---+---


End file.
